


we'll watch our children play

by ninwrites



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), First Dates, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Gift Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Meet-Cute, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Romantic Fluff, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Richie Tozier, Stand-Up, and thus the fic ensues, eddie is a dad, richie is a godfather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22464082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninwrites/pseuds/ninwrites
Summary: Eddie waits until Bald Business Man has stepped forward, keeping a safe distance between them because he seems to like speaking with his hands. He bumps back into Richie, who grasps his shoulders with a soft “woah”, the way an old western cowboy would talk to his rearing horse. His hands are broad and warm and Eddie has to bite his own tongue because Richie is married.--or, a case of mistaken identity.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom & Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough & Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 9
Kudos: 123





	we'll watch our children play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueorion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueorion/gifts).



> written for my darling mary's birthday
> 
> \--
> 
> title from 'forever and a day' by stephin merritt // from [this prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/174226384275/the-hot-single-parent-im-into-proposed-a)

Richie can admit it. 

He’s a hopeless romantic. 

It’s only to be expected, really, that he’d fall in love with strangers in under 0.5 seconds flat, with how he grew up - his parents were never shy about the affection they showed each other, and his best friends all got married early; Stan had met his future wife at college, but Ben and Bev had been together since they were thirteen, it just made sense for them to tie the knot as soon as they’d left school. Bev even managed to have a kid during the first year of her design degree, and she finished with a Master of Fine Arts (Fashion Design) from what she assured Richie was the very best Fashion Institute of Technology. 

(He’s been name-dropping her ever since. Yes, his best friend is  _ that  _ Beverly Marsh of Marsh Designs. Crazy, huh?)

His parents were even accepting when he came out, didn’t throw a fuss, just made sure to ask if there were any ‘nice boys’ around - his mother even started attempting to match-make with sons of her bridge friends, hardly batting an eye when explaining to Richie that Scott, Jean’s son (the teacher, not to be confused with Scott, Ann’s son, who’s in marketing, although both are really quite handsome). 

It’s actually quite selfish of them, when he thinks about, to deprive him of the chance to further his career in comedy through the trials of his tumultuous childhood. 

He has the best evidence for soulmates right in front of him, three times over - Ben and Bev are  _ literally _ childhood sweethearts. 

What hope does he have to be cynical about love when  _ that  _ happens? 

Sure, okay, he’s itching closer to forty with every breath he takes, and the last time he’d had a stable, long-term relationship that lasted longer than a month he’d still been in his twenties, but it’s fine. 

Because love is  _ out _ there, he just hasn’t tripped and stumbled his way into them yet.

(Genuinely, how he met his last boyfriend. Spilt coffee down the guy’s wonderfully toned chest and everything. Sure, he’d had as much personality as a sheet of cardboard, but cross his heart, Richie could never say he didn’t have fun.)

* * *

“Ruby-Ru!” Richie shouts, cupping his mouth to better carry his voice. 

His god-daughter rolls her eyes in a perfect imitation of her mother. Richie grins. He hasn’t seen her in at least a month, after doing a few quick stops on his mini-tour of  _ Trashmouth Presents: Unfunny Guy _ in the hopes of workshopping his material into a bigger special to pitch, preferably, by the end of the year. In the time that has passed, Ruby has dyed her hair a shocking bright blue, and shaved half of it, leaving the rest in a sort of, floppy-fringe thing that Richie doesn’t understand but supports wholeheartedly. 

The little rugrat has always gone after whatever she wanted. He loves her creativity, and the pure no-fucks-given attitude that has always been bigger than her tiny frame could hold. Ruby appears to be growing into it in her teenagehood. Good for her. Fuck the system and all of that. 

“I see you’ve grown an extra inch since our last acquaintance.” Richie bounds over to her with all of the excitement over a newborn puppy and the consequential regret of a man far too middle-aged to jump anywhere. “You’re almost up to my elbow now.” 

Ruby punches his hip. He hadn’t been exaggerating. She cannot physically reach higher. 

“Not all of us can be beanstalks.” Ruby raises an eyebrow. Her lips, painted black, tug up into a sharp smirk. “Some are destined to be Jack, off to fight the giants before they can steal our cows.”

“Pretty sure Jack knew what he was doing when he sold his cow, kiddo.” Richie points out, even as he turns around, a long-time passenger of this particular train of conversation. “But, hey, if you want to fight giants, who am I to stop you?”

“Don’t tell Stan,” Ruby whispers, as she jumps onto Richie’s back in a move she’s been perfecting since she could walk. “But you’re one of my favourite uncles.” 

Richie laughs warmly, waiting until she’s secured her arms around his neck before standing up. Ben calls her a koala for all that she latches onto people. “I’d hope so, considering your Dad is the brother to two sisters, one of whom is married, and to a woman at that.”

“Ugh, the scandal.” Ruby sighs, forlorn. “What is the rest of the family to think?”

Richie thinks of Ben’s tales of his Great-Aunt Edith and her roommate June, and hitches Ruby up higher on his back. “If they wish to keep any sense of propriety,” he lightly tickles the underside of Ruby’s knee, “they’ll keep her out of sight.”

Ruby knocks the heel of her Doc Martens against his waist. “I hope they take me there too. I’ve always loved Auntie Kat. Always felt something of a connection to her.”

“It’s called a gaydar, my love.” Richie explains in a put-upon British accent. “Why, I knew by the flutter of my heart as soon as you were born. It was the third anniversary of Ellen’s coming out, you know.”

“I do.” Ruby pats Richie’s cheek. “You’ve written it on every birthday card you’ve ever given me.”

Richie tilts sideways, just for a step. “Can’t have you forgetting, now. What a travesty that would be! How else would you know that you’re a lesbian?”

Ruby is silent for a few seconds, almost enough to be worrying, before she pipes up, a little quieter: “Falling in love with a girl is a pretty good tell.” 

Richie hums. Girls had rather had an opposing effect on him, but that’s all in the name of solidarity, he supposes. “Is she cool?” He asks. He’s not sure what you’re supposed to say when your god-daughter admits that she’s in love and you know for a fact that you’re the first person she’s told, but he thinks it’s a good start. 

“The coolest.” Ruby says, hooking her chin against his skull. “How did you know that you were gay?” 

“Believe it or not,” Richie feels laughter bubbling in his chest. Stan hates this story. He’d probably been hoping Ruby would never ask. Poor guy. “I kissed your Uncle Stan in a game of truth or dare and realised, even though for his sanity I must clarify, I did not have  _ feelings _ for him, he hates that word, I still liked kissing him. More than I liked kissing Betty Ripson, who was also at that party, and just as pretty as Stan, although in a girl way where she smelled like chocolate cookies.” 

“Was your first kiss Uncle Stan?” 

Richie nods. “Just pretend you didn’t hear any of this from me if he ever asks. I quite like having my head attached to my shoulders, and he quite likes pretending it never happened.”

“Wow.” Ruby whispers. “You think you know a person, and then they tell you that they kissed your uncle.”

“It’s not like I did it recently!” Richie reminds her. “We were young. Hyped up on Kool Aid. This is why they tell kids not to do drugs, sugar is already enough of a high.”

Ruby taps her fingers against his forehead. “Okay, if I wanted a lecture about health, I’d go to Alice’s dad. He’s not even a doctor, but he knows  _ a lot _ about health stuff. Especially sugar. Once he glared at me because I gave Alice a Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup.”

“Reeces isn’t even a good gift. You could have splurged on Hershey’s. Frankly, my dear, it sounds like you deserved it.” 

Ruby pinches his ear. He really doesn’t factor in the access such a position provides her. Thank God they’re almost at the gate, then he can unceremoniously pretend to let go all whilst ensuring she does land on her feet. Like he usually does. 

“He’s alright.” Ruby admits. “Alice loves him, and apparently her Mom is a lot worse. I’ve never met her, though. They split when she was really little. She says he’s just overprotective because he was really young when she was born. That his rants are just because he’s  _ passionate  _ about safety.” 

“People care about their kids in different ways,” Richie explains, not wanting to make comment on a guy he doesn’t know. “Take me, for example-” He adds, reaching for her hands before bending down and flipping her over his head. 

Fortunately, it is something they’ve done before and not something he’s attempting for the first time, because they’d probably both be sprawled out along the pavement if he’d dared that. Ruby lands on her feet, arms spread out in a flourish. Richie has to take a few deep breaths before straightening up, hands firm on his hips because he’s not sure if his back is going to give out or not. 

He’s really not getting any younger. 

“If your back hurts, I know a few good yoga poses that would help stretch out the muscles without causing any more damage. A lot of people stretch wrong because they don’t know any better, they just watch a Youtube tutorial and think they know everything. Rather defeats the purpose of trying if you pop a disc.”

Ruby waves delightfully as Richie turns around, which is reassuring, because he’s not sure he remembers the ‘Stranger Danger’ lecture Stan gave them both when Ruby first started school. 

“Hi Mr Kaspbrak!” Ruby exclaims, adding in a softer voice. “Hi, Alice.”

_ Mr Kaspbrak _ must be a figment of Richie’s imagination. A very handsome, very appealing figment straight out of his very filthiest wet dreams. He’s taller than Ruby, although only so far as Richie’s shoulders, with slick black hair that’s  _ parted _ , and he’s wearing a tight  _ ironed _ blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up perfectly and an honest-to-god tie that - and Richie doesn’t know why he knows, but he does, he  _ knows _ that it matches perfectly with the dark navy slacks that streamline his legs. Richie almost wants to ask him to turn around, just in case. Just to be sure. 

Mr Kaspbrak offers his hand, and it’s all Richie can do not to kiss the back of it. “Eddie. Please call me Eddie. I keep insisting that Ruby do the same but she’s too polite.”

Richie nods. He feels like he’s operating 0.5 seconds behind everything else.  _ God _ but Mr Kaspbrak -  _ Eddie _ \- has beautiful eyes. Big, brown doe eyes. Is it too early to propose? It’s probably too early, right. Besides, he doesn’t seem the shotgun wedding type. He probably likes a big, white chapel with a real minister and fifty guests on either side and a  _ very specific _ wedding registry. 

“H-hi.” Richie chokes out. Shakes his head. Ignores the pinch Ruby inflicts on the back of his hand. “She’s certainly a good-un,” he says in a  _ horrific  _ British accent. 

Eddie frowns. “Right. Yes. I’ve met her mother, Beverly, before and she always seemed very polite. Spoke quite highly of you.” 

_ Of me? Why would Bev talk about me? _ Is what Richie thinks. 

“Ah, yes, the other woman in my life.” Is what he says, instead. 

Eddie’s frown deepens. Besides him, his daughter Alice - same dark hair, though longer and tied in wavy pigtails with blue ribbon, same big brown eyes - laughs softly, although she’s polite enough to hide it behind her hand. 

Ruby has no such qualms, instead snickering even as she reaches for Richie’s hand. 

“His name is Richie,” she explains, because Richie hadn’t yet introduced himself, still drooling over Eddie’s shoulders. Amongst other things. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Richie.” Eddie says. He’s still frowning a little, but Richie has started to think that’s just a thing that his very pretty face does. 

“The pleasure is all mine, sugar.” Richie drawls, reverting back to the Southern Voice he uses when he’s anxious. Usually around pretty guys, because he lost any self control he might have had when puberty attacked. 

Ruby squeezes Richie’s hand. “Mr Kaspbrak, is Alice busy this weekend?”

Eddie shakes his head. Not a hair moves out of place. “It’s my weekend with her, but I hadn’t started planning anything yet. If the two of you would like to catch up I don’t see a problem with it, but you should probably ask your father, first.”

He turns to Richie, expectantly. Richie wonders if he works out. He’d have to. No one has a body like that without putting the effort in. He probably runs. Such a thought has never been so attractive to Richie before. 

Ruby knocks the back of her heel into his ankle. Richie clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Sorry?”

Eddie’s cheeks are very pink. Richie wants to kiss them. Just a quick peck. Innocent, really. “Is Ruby free for a playdate this weekend?”

Richie glances at Ruby, who nods furiously. “I guess, yeah? Playdate kinda sounds like they’re three, though. Like, they’re toddlers at daycare but the kind that the moms still attend because they’re not ready to let go yet, and it’s their only source of contact with the outside world so they just sort of throw their kids onto this soft mat and talk about, like, formula and teething and how  _ their kid _ is going to be a child prodigy even though they’re currently shoving wooden blocks into their ears.”

Eddie’s cheeks are red now, but there’s something at the corner of his mouth that Richie might dare to call the beginning of a smile. “A  _ hang _ then? Is that what the cool kids are calling it?” Eddie glances down towards Richie’s shoes - hot pink with neon green laces - and then back up. “I only ask because you seem to be quite dedicated to fitting in with them.”

“Zing.” Ruby whispers beneath her breath. 

Richie is in love. He’ll have to tell Bev, she’ll be delighted.

“Does this promise of a  _ hang _ include your presence?” Richie lets his gaze drop, just a second, to Eddie’s lips before flickering back up again. Ruby had said he was divorced from Alice’s mother, but he’s been playing the gay game for a long time now, and no straight man attacks that viciously. They either threaten to punch your lights out or storm off. 

Eddie is playing a game, and Richie is more than willing to participate. 

Eddie clears his throat, rather pointedly. “I suppose I could … see. If I’m free. For the girls.”

Richie nods. “Of course. Saturday, then? There’s a nice coffee shop a few blocks away. Or a Starbucks a street over.” 

“I hate Starbucks.” Eddie scrunches his nose. “They’re just a product of corporate greed and this ridiculous habit we’ve formed of not enjoying something once all of the sparkle of it being new fades, which only serves to put even more money in the pockets of people perpetuating class disparity, all because some underpaid intern has suggested slapping ‘unicorn’ onto a menu board and nobody can have an original thought that isn’t shared by a greater horde.”

Oh. Yep. Richie is definitely in love. 

“Not a big fan of the ‘Bucks.” Richie nods. “Got it. William’s, then? Say, nine?” 

Earlier than he’d like to be up on a Saturday, but worth it. For Ruby, of course. 

Eddie nods. “Sure. It’s a date.” He clamps his mouth shut, but the words are out. Richie is delighted. He wonders if he’s glowing. He hopes he’s glowing. Like a beautiful pregnant woman.

“A playdate.” He corrects with a wink, because he can, because he likes how the red creeps towards Eddie’s ears and the way he fights against a smile as though he is determined to win out. 

“A playdate.” Eddie confirms through gritted teeth. 

Richie can’t wait.

* * *

It’s only when Ruby prances through her front door, sidling up to her mother to stage-whisper - “Rich flirted with Mr Kaspbrak and got a date, but Mr Kaspbrak doesn’t know it’s a date-date because he thinks you’re married to Richie” - that Richie realises how wrong everything had really gone down.

“Oh fuck,” He says.

“Language.” Bev mutters, half-heartedly. 

“He thinks I’m a married man … a married man who  _ flirts  _ with the hot single dad’s of their daughter’s best friends. Holy fudge.” Richie slumps against the wall, head sunk into his hands. “What if he thinks I’m straight and just flirting with him as a joke? Fudging ... fudge.” 

“Good one.” Ruby comments dryly. “My innocence is safe. I can’t possibly crack that code.”

Richie curls further into himself. From somewhere in front of him, Bev tuts. “You’ve been spending too much time around Stan.”

“Mr Kaspbrak seemed interested in Richie.” Ruby points out. Richie makes an indecipherable noise in the back of his throat. “I’m going upstairs to do my homework. I can promise not to conspire with Alice against them, or not to tease Richie up to and during the course of this not-date, but I’m afraid I cannot possibly do both.”

“You will do as you’re told.” Bev insists. Richie would laugh if he wasn’t in such self-pitying despair. 

Fantastic first impression to make on a hot dad who clearly cares about things like respecting the conventions of marriage - such as not flirting outside of your relationship - given how much of a fuss he’d kicked over Starbucks. 

Richie whines and drags his hands through his hair. Eddie is just … so hot. 

“You could just tell him the truth.” Bev suggests. She reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed her getting closer. “It’s a misunderstanding. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“He made a midlife crisis joke,” Richie bemoans. “Without even using those words. And he called it a date. I mean, there’s no way that he meant to, but he  _ did _ . And he’s just … Bev. Beverly. He’s so attractive.”

“I know. I have met him.” Bev reminds him, kindly. “I still think all of your problems can be solved if you just talk to him. I’m pretty sure I have his number, actually, he’s a stickler for these things, I’m surprised he didn’t give it to you himself.”

Richie peers up at Bev through the gaps of his fingers. “You couldn’t have said this earlier.”

Bev grins sweetly. “And take away your excuse to be dramatic over your new crush?” 

“That makes it sound like we’re back in high school.”

Bev pats his cheek, only slightly condescending. “Probably because you’re acting like it.” 

Richie groans under his breath. “I let him think I’m married, Bev.  _ Married _ . Which, no offence, I’m sure you’re a great wife to have and everything, Benny Boy seems really happy and sometimes the force of his heart-eyes literally bowls me over - but Eddie doesn’t seem like the kind of guy that’s willing to commit an adulterous affair.”

“Good thing you aren’t married then.” Bev reminds him. She pulls back, reaching for both of his hands to pull him away from the wall. “Look, my advice - not that you’ve asked, but you wouldn’t be talking about it if you didn’t want to know - go on this  _ playdate _ , test the waters, see what it’s like. If there’s nothing between you, then you don’t have to worry about anything. If there’s a spark or chemistry or something between you, tell him the truth. No harm, no foul.”

“No harm, no foul.” Richie echoes, feeling very much like neither is true. 

Bev leads him towards the kitchen, carefully depositing him on a stool at the breakfast bench, before ducking around the other side. Richie watches as she pulls out two frosted whiskey glasses, and a bottle of lemon-lime bitters from inside the fridge. 

“Non-alcoholic.” Bev shrugs. “But good enough.”

Richie takes the drink with a wry smile, downing it all in one go, only wincing slightly at the bubbles that tickle his nose as he shoots his hand out again. “Give me a double.”

Bev shakes her head slightly, but does as he’s asked. He knows that he’s being over-dramatic, that things really aren’t as bad as they seem, and it’s all the more for it that he appreciates her indulgence. He’s always gone to her for relationship troubles, ever since coming out to her at fourteen, because while Stan is supportive where it counts, he doesn’t have half of the patience that Bev does, and where relationships are concerned, sometimes Richie just wants to complain and throw himself down along a couch with his hand over his eyes, lamenting his woes. 

Stan would probably have kicked him out with an insistent, but caring - “you got yourself into this mess, Tozier, I’m sure you can find your way out.”

“What’s the real problem here?” Bev asks, leaning over the bench on folded arms. 

Richie shrinks a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Rich. I  _ know _ you. Being married to me is the perfect opening to a punchline for you, usually. You’re treating this very seriously for a case of mistaken identity from a stranger.”

It’s not because he thinks it’s love at first sight, or because he and Eddie are soulmates, or anything like that. He knows it takes more than just a few minutes to figure out if there is a good relationship to be found between people, and even more effort besides that. 

There’s something about Eddie, though, that makes Richie think he’d be giving up a chance at something amazing if he doesn’t try. 

“He went on this rant,” Richie sips at his drink this time. “About Starbucks of all things. And it was ridiculous, honestly, that a grown man had such a passionate opinion about a place that sells coffee, but there was just so much fire in him.”

“Sounds like Eddie.”

“And,” Richie leans forward, almost toppling off of his seat. “He attacked me for making fun of him saying ‘playdate’, right - like excuse me, they’re not five - he basically said I was trying to fit in with teenagers too much and there’s so much that I could unpack but I didn’t have to. He looked at me and it was like … like he knew what I was thinking. That I thought he was hilarious. Like he knows me already.”

Bev hums. “So, you like him. It’s okay to like him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Richie sighs. “I don’t know. It feels different. He’s … so different than anybody I’ve ever met.”

“Would it hurt to give it a chance?” Bev asks. “Give him a chance, if he’s interested?”

“I guess not.”

Bev reaches up and ruffles his hair, like she used to when they were kids (and just last week). “All I want is for you to be happy. You deserve that. And I think it’s worth seeing if you can find that with Eddie.” 

“Fine,” Richie sighs, as though he is giving in to a momentous hardship. “I’ll go on the playdate with Eddie.  _ God _ , Mom.”

“That’s a good son.”

* * *

It’s hard to tell who is more excited about Saturday. 

Richie picks Ruby up at half-past eight, sipping black coffee from a carry cup that has  _ Trashmouth Productions  _ written on it, in hot pink against a white background because he is nothing if not on brand. 

Ben opens the door, which is a relief, because he’s more likely to pretend Richie doesn’t look like death warmed up than Bev, who would notice, or Ruby, who would laugh openly. 

“Hey, Richie.” Ben steps back, opening the door wider for Richie to pass through. “That’s an interesting choice of attire.”

Richie glances down. His runners are clean, if a little tattered, and his jeans are neat and he’s paired a white shirt printed with blue hearts over a faded Thunderbirds top. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever worn. 

“Unfortunately I’ve left my little black dress at the dry cleaners.” Richie winks at Ben. “All I had otherwise was this and a sleek lacy slip but I’m saving that for our anniversary, hot stuff.”

“Richard!” Bev shouts from upstairs. “Stop flirting with my husband. You had your chance and you blew it.”

Ben laughs softly, and even harder when Richie pats his chest and whispers “don’t listen to her, we’ll soon have enough to run away together. Somewhere sunny and warm so you never have to wear a shirt again.”

“Looking forward to it.” He plays along, shutting the door.

Ruby comes bounding down the stairs. It’s hard sometimes to remember that she’s the same baby that he spilled tears on the head of the first time he held her, the same young girl who, during the entire month he spent sleeping on Ben and Bev’s couch after (what had felt at the time as) a horrible break-up, had woken him up each and every morning by jumping onto his back and shouting in his ear  _ “quickly, quickly, the British are coming!” _ despite not knowing herself what those words actually meant. 

Ruby is the closest thing to a child of his own that Richie may ever have, and it’s so easy to remember the kid that she used to be, the glimpses of which still show so clearly that he forgets that she is growing up, and quickly. 

He tries to live in the moment as much as he can, hates the pity of nostalgia, but he can’t help but think that there’s something melancholy about watching someone grow up.

“Are you hungover?” Ruby asks, as soon as her feet reach the ground. Her doc martens are scribbled over in white ink, and she’s wearing an honest-to-God paint splattered white smock over black tights and a long-sleeved black shirt.

“Are you wearing paint?” Richie scrunches up his nose. “Isn’t that something five year olds do?” 

Ruby pushes her sunglasses up to the top of her head. They’re pink and heart shaped and Richie genuinely wishes that he had a pair. “You are the last person who can criticise my outfit.”

“Richie has his own style.” Bev comments, following down the stairs. “It may not be conventional, but nobody can say that it’s not unique.”

“Thank you.” Richie says. 

Ruby walks over, casting a critical eye towards the ripped knees of Richie’s jeans. “Sometimes I wish our roles were reversed.” She sighs. “You always get to dress like the child.” 

There was a time, when Ruby was about eight, flicking between styles, where the two of them dressed remarkably similar. It was mostly unintentional, but whenever they were out together it always looked like Richie was her embarrassing dad who coordinated their outfits so they looked the same. 

“Right.” Richie holds his mug up triumphantly. “There’s no need for this anymore. I’m awake as fuck now.”

“Language,” Ben replies, half-heartedly. Bev rolls her eyes, but Richie can see the corner of a grin behind the mug she takes a sip from, her arm wrapped around Ben’s waist. 

Richie shrugs, as though to say _what are you going to do?_ _Shit happens._ He turns to Ruby, who’s texting with one hand, the other plaiting her hair into a weird, side-braid thing that looks far too complicated for human hands alone. 

“You ready kiddo?”

Ruby taps a few things before looking up. Her grin reminds Richie of a documentary they’d watched once, on nurse sharks. God, but he loves her as his own. 

“Yep.” She pauses, not even blinking, just stares at him for a good minute. “You?”

Richie nods, reaching out to flip her sunglasses down. “You betcha.”

Ruby rolls her eyes in a perfect imitation of her mother. Richie grins, and waves to Ben and Bev with one hand, the other hooked around Ruby’s wrist so he can swing their arms back and forth between them. 

It only hits him when they’re getting into his car, a ridiculously flashy red thing he bought when he got his first big paycheck because he didn’t know what else to do with the money, that he has to tell Eddie the truth. Because if he doesn’t, Ruby is sure to, and he can’t damage control her admissions as easily as his own. 

If he leaves it up to her she’ll probably tell Eddie that Richie is in love with him or something. Which is just … only like ten percent true. 

Seventy five at most. 

* * *

Richie Tozier dresses like a frat boy. 

Eddie should have remembered this from the first time they met, but he had been a little preoccupied with his dumb smile and the stupid jokes he cracked. It’s a little harder to miss this time. 

He’s wearing an old  _ Thunderbirds  _ shirt with an unbuttoned shirt just flapping in the wind, the laces of his runners are fluorescent - green on the left, orange on the right - and his hair has been pulled up into a messy bun with a pink floral printed scrunchie. He doesn’t look as though he has shaved in a week, all rough stubble and grey shadows and it infuriates Eddie because it makes his bright bug-eyes stand out from behind his thick-rimmed glasses and for some reason that is something Eddie finds attractive. 

Which he shouldn’t. Because this is the father of his daughter’s best friend, and such an infraction goes against his number one rule - Always Put Alice First. 

It’s why he’s here, on a Saturday at a kitschy little coffee shop whose menu is written in chalk on walls covered with hand-drawn designs that have no flow or theme whatsoever. It’s why he argued with Myra for three hours while Alice was at school, to convince her that he wasn’t going to end up sending their child to the E.R just because he takes her to coffee with a friend, advocating on Richie’s behalf with a confidence he can’t explain, not even to himself, knowing the hellfire that would rain down on him if something  _ did _ happen to Alice. 

He trusts Richie though. He doesn't know why. He has no reason to, they’ve just met, and sure Bev speaks about her husband as though he personally hung the moon in the sky for her, and maybe he did, but that doesn’t explain why  _ Eddie _ has such a good sense of him. 

Maybe it’s his lopsided smile or the way he swings Ruby’s hand as though she’s five, to her great begrudgement, or the fact that despite all of this she too is smiling, just a little, embarrassed by her father’s antics but far from upset at them. Maybe it’s that he sees Eddie and Alice, sitting at a booth a few feet from the door, and waves so enthusiastically it’s a wonder that his hand doesn’t fall off. Maybe it’s that, even though they hardly know each other, Richie stands up and holds his arms out, waiting for a confirmation from Eddie before pulling him in for a hug that is warm and appropriately short. 

He then gives Alice a high five. If Eddie was a weaker man, he’d have swooned. It’s a close call all the same. 

“I’m so glad I didn’t wear my very best suit.” Richie comments as he ushers Alice and Ruby into opposite sides of the booth. If Eddie didn’t know better, he’d almost dare to claim that Richie is checking him out. “I’d hate for us to clash.”

Eddie brushes the front of his suit, unhooking the smooth buttons as he sits down. Richie rather inelegantly flops onto the seat opposite him, and Eddie bites back a smile. “I have a conference call with a client later. It seemed more productive to just get prepared early.”

Richie grins. “I do admire a man who can be ready for anything.”

Eddie clears his throat. Richie pushes his glasses up his nose with his thumb and Eddie has to bite his tongue to keep from offering to clean Richie’s smudged lenses for him. 

“Right. Well.” He turns to Alice, who grins at him so wide, and so similar to Ruby, that it’s a little unnerving. “Do you girls know what you want?”

“Hot chocolate.” They say in almost perfect synchronicity. Alice adds, with the kind of smile that she only turns out when she wants something. “With almond milk for mine, please. And some choc-chip cookies. Please.”

Eddie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and nods. It strikes him sometimes, bitter and sweet, that his little girl is really not so little anymore. He never thought he’d have kids, was terrified that he’d never be a good dad because he didn’t have one of his own, that his mother’s condition was genetic, inheritable, inescapable. Dating Myra had been a mistake, he knows, a misgiven attempt to convince himself that he wasn’t gay, because his mother wanted him to marry a nice girl, to settle down a block away with a neat lawn that impresses the neighbours and a key hooked in her entryway if she ever wants to come around. 

No distance further than a dog on a leash. 

It had been a long journey, painful and terrifying and there were many points where he didn’t think he would make it out alive, where he doubted that he’d be able to escape his mother’s clutches, the manacles too tight around his wrists. 

(The first, and only, time that he’d watched Tangled had sent him to the bathroom, hyperventilating, because he didn’t want Alice to see but he couldn’t control it either. Fortunately, Bill and Mike had been there, and Bill had distracted Alice while Mike talked him down, but it had still made him feel weak, hopeless - trapped.) 

But he did, he did escape, and he divorced Myra and he still has to fight for himself and for Alice, he fought tooth and nail to go from visiting rights to shared custody and he’s terrified, every day, of doing something that Myra could use against him, to take Alice away, because he would do anything for her. 

Alice is the best part of his life. She is the beginning and end of everything that has ever mattered to him, his entire world is his daughter and everything he’s gone through is worth it for her. 

He regrets a lot about his life, about his relationship with Myra, and in another life maybe coming out would have been easier, maybe his mother wouldn’t be guard to his prisoner and maybe he wouldn’t have married someone exactly like her but in that life he wouldn’t have Alice and he has never regretted her. 

For her, he’d go threw it all again a thousand-fold. 

“Coming right up.” He says, just as Richie stands up. He and Ruby share a complicated look that ends up with Richie rolling his eyes. 

“I’ll come with you.” Richie offers. “I’m sure these two  _ larrikins _ can’t get themselves into too much trouble in the few minutes we’re gone.” 

“Is that what you call an Australian accent?” Eddie asks, resting his hand on Richie’s shoulder. God, he’s broad. And tall. Which isn’t that difficult because Eddie is (a very average) 5”9 but still ... tall. 

Eddie shakes his head. Pulls his hand back. Practically bites off the tip of his own tongue. “That’s almost bad enough to offend an entire continent. And naive besides. They’re thirteen years old, they’re probably plotting something right as we speak.” 

“Maybe.” Richie shrugs. “But I doubt there’s anything we could do to stop them. This way, if something goes wrong with their plan, it can’t be blamed on us.” 

“That’s-“ kind of genius “the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Richie preens. “Oh, you’ve got no idea. I’m full of ridiculous things. I can also  _ be _ full of ridiculous things with the right convincing.” 

Eddie stares at Richie with a blank stare for as long as he can - a good few seconds at least - without cracking. It’s a terrible joke. Richie is lucky that he didn’t choose comedy for a career, because he wouldn’t be going anywhere with material as weak as that.

“Just for that, you’re paying.” Eddie declares, only realising once he’s turned away the implications of his words. 

It doesn’t help that Richie practically trips over his feet to catch up, leaning forward to whisper in what ends up being Eddie’s ear: “I thought convention was that the one who asked is the one who pays. Of course, if you want to pay next time I certainly won’t argue.”

Eddie steps into line behind a tall, bald man in a pinstripe suit yelling very loudly into his Bluetooth earpiece. “I will.” He says. 

Richie bumps against Eddie’s back. “Really? We haven’t even-”

“Oh!” Eddie’s ears flare red. “I meant - argue. I will argue. I’m quite prone to it. I never really had a voice as a kid, figuratively, because my mom made all of my decisions for me and then I got married and my wife continued the trend that my mother started and so my therapist thinks I turn to arguing as a way to prove that I have a voice and that I deserve to be heard because I was never given that freedom as a kid.”

It’s a lot to tell a stranger, in the queue for overpriced coffee on a Saturday morning. If this was a real date, and his daughter wasn’t here, Eddie would have bolted already. 

Instead, he grits his teeth and stares straight ahead, trying to ignore the warmth of Richie’s presence behind him. 

“I used to get beat up after school.” Richie murmurs, just loud enough for Eddie to hear. “Once when I was twelve I got shoved into a locker because I was tall and lanky, so the local bullies figured I could fit. And I did. For the entire school day. My mom tore the teachers a new one, but the next week it kept going. I got called gay before I even knew what it meant. It’s why I enjoy comedy so much - I’ve always felt like a joke, but if I’m the one making them…” Richie laughs, a little breathy. “The power is mine.”

He adds, after a moment. “In the spirit of sharing.” 

Eddie waits until Bald Business Man has stepped forward, keeping a safe distance between them because he seems to like speaking with his hands. He bumps back into Richie, who grasps his shoulders with a soft “woah”, the way an old western cowboy would talk to his rearing horse. His hands are broad and warm and Eddie has to bite his own tongue because  _ Richie is married _ . 

“I promise I didn’t mean to spill all of that.” Eddie clears his throat. “My therapist is going to have a field day with this.”

Richie squeezes Eddie’s shoulders, and then pulls back, hands falling to his sides. “Gotta keep them in a job somehow, I always say. Nothing like a little emotional constipation to pay the bills.”

Eddie shudders all the way down to his toes. “That’s disgusting. Please never say those words to me again.”

Richie laughs, leaning forward to whisper “emotional constipation” into Eddie’s ear. 

Eddie elbows him back, but Richie just laughs softly and continues hovering behind Eddie. It’s ridiculous, the way Richie behaves, the way Eddie reacts to it. 

The way Richie makes Eddie forget everything, the way he makes Eddie feel like he’s sixteen again, childish and playful and carefree.

* * *

“That girl at the bar is checking you out.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his scotch and soda. Bill snickers from across the table, leaning further into Mike’s space, who is himself the spitting image of the cat that got the cream. 

“That girl looks nineteen,” Eddie shakes his head. “How did she even get let in, let alone served?”

“M-must have a hell of a fa-fake ID.” Bill suggests. 

Mike grins. “Never had to worry about that myself. I don’t think I’ve ever been carded.”

Bill pokes the apple of his cheek, grinning too. “Th-that’s because you w-went from being fourteen t-to looking twenty-f-five overnight.”

Mike preens, taking Bill’s hand and kissing the back of it softly. “Not all of us can have your baby-face. Great-Aunt Rose still thinks that you’re my boytoy.”

“Always and f-forever, baby.” Bill whispers, batting his eyelashes. 

Eddie kicks at Bill’s foot underneath the table. “If I knew that coming out with you would just involve being a spectator to your flirting then I would have stayed at home instead.”

“In your quiet, lonely, vacant house?” Mike narrows his eyes. “Eddie. I love you, man. But you were supposed to have Alice for the whole weekend and then Myra springs this birthday party on you out of nowhere and demands you let Alice go, even though she’s never met his Great-Great-Whatever, and you let her because you’re good that way, and that takes a lot of strength, but it’s okay to be … to be sad, or pissed off, or whatever. But you don’t have to lie to us. We know you. You hate being in that house alone.”

Eddie pulls his travel-sized hand sanitizer out and squeezes a generous amount into the middle of his palm. “I  _ hate _ that you know me so well. I hate that Myra just sweeps Alice out from under my feet and I can’t stop it because I’m one claim away from losing joint-custody because she’s a compulsive liar and equal residential custody is only awarded in 2-6% of cases, whereas mothers are given primary custody 68-88% of the time, and those aren’t odds I can beat without putting Alice in harm’s way. I hate that Alice is at the center of all of this being pulled from side to side like a puppet because I swore when I separated from Myra that she would never be used as a pawn between us.”

Eddie vigorously rubs the sanitizer across the back of his hands and between his fingers. “I hate that I can’t do more to protect Alice from the same shit that I dealt with as a kid, because I still haven’t been able to shrug it all off myself and I  _ still  _ catch myself fretting over potential allergies and too much gluten and not enough protein and whether she has the right sunscreen and what if some kid at school has lice or a cold or she scrapes her knees and then gets gangrene or catches fucking smallpox or something, there are no vaccines for that-”

“I’m pretty sure they’ve ruled out smallpox coming back anytime soon.” Mike points out, kindly. 

Eddie slumps back against his seat. “That’s my point. Most of these fears are pointless, but I still have them, and they don’t stop and I don’t want to be like my mother, or Myra, I want Alice to have a normal life where she can make mistakes and graze her knees and do adventurous things like … like have cake for breakfast or own a pet or even just leave the house without constant supervision. I don’t want to crowd her, I want her to make her own, messy way through life and I’m … I’m so scared that I’m really going to … fuck things up.”

“Ed-eddie,” Bill shakes his head. “Of c-course you’re going to fuck things up, you’re a p-parent. They all do, at one point or anoth-another. It matters what you do a-a-after that.” 

“You’re a great dad.” Mike reaches out, squeezing Eddie’s hand. “But you’re no saint. You do what you can, you do your best, and that’s what really matters, okay? You’re not your mom, or Myra, you’re Eddie Freaking Kaspbrak and you’re a great dad.”

Bill raises his glass and clinks it against Mike’s. “H-here, here.” 

Eddie ducks his head, and is about to reply when he’s interrupted by his phone vibrating in his front pocket - because he refuses to put it on the sticky bar table - with an incoming text. 

He ignores Bill and Mike’s gaze, intent and curious, as he pulls his phone out. He doesn’t expect to see Richie’s name lighting up the screen … yet he doesn’t feel all that surprised, either. 

Richie (Ruby’s Dad):

_ So. Having coffee was a great idea. Genuinely, really enjoyed myself. In unrelated news, I may end up in the emergency room tonight if my stomach doesn’t calm the fuck down - just in case we didn’t overshare enough earlier today.  _

Eddie huffs out a soft laugh under his breath, thumbs tapping out a reply just as another text is sent through

_ You drink one large extra milky latte … I swear, it almost isn’t worth the war that’s been waged in my intestines. Will update if full-scale destruction is launched. Think of me in my hour of need, Great Spaghetti-O.  _

Eddie types back furiously before Richie can add something else on. It’s something of a weird comfort to know that he messages just the same as he speaks, fast responses and slightly inappropriate tangents that exude a ridiculous charm. 

_ Are you seriously telling me that you’re lactose intolerant? And you drank milk? You do know that there are dairy-free alternatives right? That won’t have you running to the toilet? Did you know that severe lactose intolerance can lead to leaky gut syndrome, which causes inflammatory and auto-immune issues, not to mention malnutrition if the microvilli is damaged. Is the coffee really worth that, Rich?  _

_ Also, my name is Eddie, dumbass. _

“It’s like we’re not even here.” Mike whispers. 

“W-we’re nothing mo-more to him than m-memories, now.” Bill laments. 

Eddie glares at both of them, an easy task given how they’re shoved together, Mike’s arm wound around Bill’s shoulders. “I’ve been the blameless bystander to your relationship since the ninth grade, do you really want to go there?”

Bill tucks his head against Mike’s neck, reaching up to grasp his hand. “Mikey, I th-think someone’s a b-bit jealous of our love.”

Mike bats his eyelashes at Eddie, pouting even despite the amused glint in his eyes. “Eddie, you know that we love you. You’re like the son we’ve never had.”

Eddie gapes. “I’m literally Bill’s age that doesn’t make  _ any _ sense.” He pulls an antiseptic foil packet of his pocket, tearing the corner and taking the wipe out to clean the screen of his phone. “And for your information, I’m messaging the father of one of Alice’s friends, it’s not like we’re married or something.” 

“You do like him though.” Mike tilts his head, fingers playing idly with Bill’s. “I can see it in your smile. You never smile when you text someone. You hate it almost as much as phone calls.” 

“It’s an unnecessary and ridiculous way to spread bacteria.” Eddie points out, folding his arms across his chest. “Besides, he messaged me, I’m just doing the polite thing and replying.” 

“W-what‘s his name?” Bill asks, grinning ear-to-ear. 

__

Mike puts his head on his fist, leaning in closer like it’s a sleepover. “Does he just have the dreamiest eyes and the  _ sweetest _ smile you ever did see? Is his voice like summer rain? Does he make you feel like you’re sixteen again.”

Eddie groans, scrubbing a hand across his face. “He’s the kind of guy who ignores his lactose intolerance and dresses like a frat boy and wears floral scrunchies and makes the most ridiculous jokes and he’s handsome in a dorky way and he’s … God, he’s married.”

He can feel the glance that Mike and Bill share without needing to look up, which is good, because he quite prefers the contact he’s making with the back of his hands right now. 

“M-married?” Bill asks. 

Mike sighs. “Oh, Eddie.” 

Eddie pulls his hands away. “It’s fine. It’s fine. We’re friends. Maybe. We could be, because our kids are friends and that’s what you do, and yeah, maybe I think he’s really cool and maybe I’m attracted to him but I can handle a tiny little crush. It’s nothing, I’m fine.” 

“Yo-you don’t s-s-sound fine.” Bill gently kicks at the bottom of Eddie’s stool. “Are you s-sure he’s married? Could it b-be a joke?”

“He’s married to Beverly Marsh,” Eddie shakes his head. “He’s definitely taken. But that’s not a problem, because I’m fine.”

“I th-thought Bev was m-m-married to-” Bill starts, but Mike gently cuts him off with a squeeze of his hand and a pointed look. 

“Are you … seeing him again, soon?” Mike asks. “With the kids or without?”

Eddie glances at his phone. Richie’s reply had come through a few minutes before. 

Richie (Ruby’s Dad):

_ Sorry, I didn’t realise that was your full name. I will make sure to refer to you with the proper address, Eddie Dumbass. Also, at that time of the morning coffee is worth everything. ALSO nut milk isn’t real milk. I’ll leave out the dirty joke this time, but I hope you can fill in the gaps for me ;) _

“I don’t know.” Eddie answers truthfully. He’s smiling, a little bit. Richie is crude, undoubtedly, but in a weirdly charming way - he can almost see the cheeky leer Richie would give if he’d delivered such a line in person. “I - I don’t know. I want to, but then I feel like it’s bad that I want to because I can’t tell if I’m just doing that because I think he’s cool and because our kids get along or if it’s because I  _ like _ him, and I can’t afford to like him because he’s married and I can’t get into a mess like that and I certainly can’t bring Alice into that-”

Mike reaches out and squeezes Eddie’s hand, just as Bill nudges Eddie’s shin with the heel of his boot. “Hey, Ed. It’s okay to like him. It doesn’t have to be more than that. If you want to be friends with him, you should give it a go. You’ll never know if you don’t try, first.”

Eddie thumbs the lockscreen of his phone. “I suppose. I’m still best friends with both of you.”

“Y-you had a crush on m-me?” Bill asks, eyes wide. 

Mike turned to him. “Of course he did. You were everyone’s sexual awakening, babe. There’s a reason we called you  _ Big Bill _ .”

Bill’s cheeks flush red. “Oh.”

“And Mike has always been hot.” Eddie waves a hand in Mike’s general direction. “Having a crush on you, Bill, is like a right of passage and having a crush on Mike is just - human.”

Mike smiles, sweet and a little bashful. “You’re quite the catch yourself, Eddie.”

“Yeah, well.” Eddie unlocks his phone. “As soon as I can convince single men who are definitely not married of that, I’m set.”

* * *

Richie’s first thought when he comes home from a workshop meeting with his manager about his next show isn’t that the door is unlocked, but rather, that he’s forgotten - again - to lock it behind him when he left earlier. 

He doesn’t spend much effort worrying about it, because he’s just as likely to forgotten again next week when he has his rehearsal at the venue, because his pre-show anxiety is just as crippling as his pathological lateness. 

It’s not like he really has anything important to steal. Material stuff, sure, but nothing that really matters to him. He has a safe upstairs and a storage unit for the bigger stuff, everything else is just … tokenism, because he has more money now than he ever imagined could be real when he was a kid, and here’s a cause-and-effect there that has him buying a life-size Stormtrooper that was auctioned off at a charity gala that Bev took him to, and a real talking BB-8 droid because deep down he’s still the same thirteen-year-old that cracked jokes like popping candy for people’s attention, only now he gets paid for it. 

“You’re going to get murdered if you insist on leaving your door unlocked.” 

If asked, Richie would vehemently deny that he jumped a good foot in the air. Without prompt, Stan would confirm that he did in fact release a high-pitched squeal as he did so.

“Are you going to be the one that does it?” Richie asks, hand pressed flat against his chest. 

Stan peers up at Richie from across the edge of a newspaper that Richie  _ knows _ he only brought for Dramatic Effect because Richie hasn’t touched a physical newspaper since he was in elementary school making paper mache heads. 

“Fortunately for you, no.” Stan folds the newspaper in half. “That would make talking to you about Eddie a little difficult.”

“Eddie?” Richie tries to school his face into a neutral expression, fails, and settles for a painfully obvious, and bad, attempt at nonchalance. “Who’s that?”

Stan just stares for a full minute, passive even as Richie shifts his weight, from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again. “Richie. Don’t insult me.”

Richie clears his throat, skirting around the couch to drop gracelessly opposite Stan. His keys dig into his hip and his phone will probably be lost to the dark crevices of the cushions but he doesn’t want to move because it feels like giving in. 

“Bev moves quick along the grapevine these days. When did she tell you?”

The corner of Stan’s mouth ticks up. “It wasn’t Bev that told me, but I will be sure to talk to her about it.” 

Richie frowns. “I didn’t think Ben would spill like that. He’s usually quite tight-lipped about these sort of things. He wouldn’t even tell me when he and Bev first hooked up even though I could literally see the hickeys they’d left on each other.”

Stan’s grin doesn’t waver. The amused glint in his eyes worries Richie. “It was our darling god-daughter Ruby, in fact, who updated me.”

Richie shakes his head. “My little Rhubarb?”

Stan grimaces. “I wish you would just call her by her name.”

“You can’t prove that’s not her real name, Staniel.” Richie picks at the frayed denim at the knee of his jeans. “What did she tell you?”

Stan folds his arms across his chest. “That you’re in love, apparently. Which isn’t that difficult to believe, given your track history. You fall in love faster than you eat, and I’ve seen you scoff down a whole hot dog in ten seconds flat.”

Richie shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a lover.”

Stan shakes his head. “Please, never say that to me again.” 

“No promises.”

Stan breathes in deeply, eyes closed, steeling himself. “Listen, Rich. This Eddie guy is different. I can tell. You’re usually flocking to tell me about the latest guy who’s stolen your heart, even if - and especially when - I don’t ask. I’ve been privy to far too much information about your amorous adventures than I ever wanted to. This time you didn’t. In fact, you seem quite determined to avoid talking about him at all costs.”

“I don’t even really know him-” Richie begins, but Stan swiftly cuts him off. 

“That has never stopped you before.” Stan opens his eyes. “Ruby didn’t tell me much. Just that there was a guy called Eddie, and she thought you’d need my help to - and I am directly quoting her here - ‘pull your head out of your own ass’.”

Richie grins despite himself. “Smart kid. I taught her everything she knows.”

“For all our sakes, I hope that’s not true.” Stan leans forward, hands clasped together, arms resting on his knees. He’s always seemed older than his age, like he was born with the ability to do his taxes and organise shopping lists, but it’s more than that, now. He’s grown into his maturity, but there’s a new spark in him, that in anybody else would appear childish. 

He’s smiling at Richie, with his eyes, and his mouth is a thin, patient line and he’s teasing and serious at once and he’s always been Richie’s best friend because he was the first who truly cared, and even though they have a strange way of showing it, may protest such a stake if put to it, he’s never stopped. 

“Tell me about him.” Stan waves his left hand. Richie glances at his wedding ring, even as his mind flits to Eddie. 

Stan had gotten married only a few years after Bev. Richie has always felt like he’s a few laps behind them, straining his lungs to keep up only to choke on the dust their steps leave behind. 

Eddie is the waterboy, at the pit stop, handing him a bottle even as he shouts at him not to stop too long, not to drink too fast, little sips, or you’ll choke, or you’ll get a stitch, and dammit Richie you will win this race if I have anything to say about it. 

“He thinks I’m married.” 

Waterboy Eddie dumps a bucket of ice water over Richie’s head, stalking off with smoke puffing from the heels of his pristine white sneakers. On the couch, Richie shivers, electricity racing down his spine, the hairs on his arm standing to attention. 

Stan’s eyes widen, just for a second, but it’s enough. “Married.” He echoes. “You don’t even have a ring.”

“Well,” Richie glances down at his hand. He hadn’t thought of that. “Think of it as a misunderstanding that I didn’t correct him on.”

Stan sighs, pressing his fingers to his temple and rubbing them slowly. “You like him. You would have hit on him by now if you just thought he was attractive, you’re only hesitating because feelings scare you. So you let him think that you’re married because that saves you the trouble of having to deal with your emotions. Right?”

Richie makes a low putting noise. “Stan the Man gets it in one.”

“Richie,” Stan smoothes his hands over his face. He’s looking at Richie with a distinct paternal frustration. It’s kinda nice. Reassuring. It’s the way Stan usually looks at him when he’s done something particularly foolish. 

“Why haven’t you just told Eddie the truth?” Stan asks. “Surely that would save you both a lot of trouble.” 

Richie drags a hand through his tangled hair. “Probably. But when have I ever done things the easy way?”

“There’s no time like the present.”

Richie groans, throwing his head back, slumping down his couch. He can feel Stan’s grin, even with his eyes closed, the smug bastard. “What if he doesn’t like me? What if he prefers the idea of me being married to Bev than being interested in him? What if I tell him and he just goes ‘I did think that you were batting above your average, everything makes a lot more sense now’ or-”

“I think,” Stan interrupts. “You owe it to Bev and Ben, as their friends, to tell Eddie the truth. He doesn’t deserve to be lied to, either. Certainly not through as unbelievable an idea as you being married to Bev.”

“Bev would be lucky to be married to me.” Richie protests. 

“You’re gay.” 

Richie blinks. “Yes. And I’d be an amazing trophy wife. Are you saying that you can’t see me as a 1950’s June Cleaver? I’d look amazing in pearls and heels. A little floral petticoat number to match.”

“There’s a soy sauce stain on your shirt in the shape of Tasmania.” Stan frowns in mild disgust. “And what I hope is powdered sugar on your jeans.”

Richie thumbs at his knee and tastes. “Yeah.” He confirms. “I had a jam donut for breakfast.”

“Of course you did.” Stan rolls his eyes, but with a fondness that says he wouldn’t have expected anything less. “My point stands. You’re a mess, but a lovable one, and I only joke about tolerating you because you are my best friend and I know that you’re a good guy.”

“Babe,” Richie presses his hand to his chest, trying to ignore the slight tremble of his smile. His lungs feel like cotton candy. “I didn’t know you cared.” 

Stan stands up swiftly, crossing the distance between them with one step, raising the newspaper Richie had forgotten about to thwack it lightly against the top of Richie’s head. 

“Shut up.” Stan frowns. “Of course I care. I’ve always cared. It’s because I do that I’m so firm with you. I know you, Richie, like the back of my own eyelids, and if someone doesn’t hold you accountable for things, you let them go. I’m not letting you do that. I refuse to stand by while you let Eddie slip past.”

He sinks down next to Richie, reaching out to card his hand gently through Richie’s hair. “I’m not saying this will be it. That this is your ride-off-into-the-sunset, Disney prince moment. I don’t know. Nobody does. But you can’t run away from every chance you get and still expect things to just happen for you.”

Richie sinks back. Stan’s gaze is kind but unwavering. “Relationships take effort.” Stan squeezes Richie’s shoulder. “Don’t give up before you even have a chance to start.”

“Okay,” Richie whispers, meekly. “I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Stan nods, pleased.

“God,” Richie laughs, strained and breathy but aiming for levity. “You act like I’m an unmarried spinster or something.”

Stan stares at him, critically. The ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “Are we sure that you aren’t?”

* * *

Richie tries to call Eddie. Really, he does.

It’s just his phone, it has this weird auto-correct thing where every time Richie tries to hit the call button he ends up sending Eddie a ridiculous meme. For nine days in a row. 

At first, Eddie just opened them and then ignored it, but Richie’s persistence must have worn him down, because he ended up replying with a bunch of question marks, before upgrading to an eye-roll emoji, before finally at the peak of day nine texting back “how old are you?”

To which Richie had of course sent back the ‘you’re not my dad’ vine to really establish his maturity. He almost drops his phone on his face when it starts vibrating with a call from Eddie. 

  
“Yo,” Richie sings, ignoring the slight tremor in his own voice. “What’s up?”

_ “I don’t know what you’re sending me but they’re stupid.” _ Eddie says, by way of greeting. 

“They’re called memes,” Richie informs him. He leans back in his desk chair, and thinks about the lecture on lumber support he’d receive if Eddie knew that he’d bought it for seven bucks at a garage sale two years ago. “They’re like internet jokes. Ruby loves them.”

_ “Well,” _ Eddie clears his throat.  _ “I still think they’re stupid.”  _

Richie puts the phone on speaker, pressing the home button and pulling up his message thread with Eddie. He sends through a Baby Yoda sipping meme before returning to the call. 

_ “Did you just send me something?” _ Eddie asks.  _ “Is it another stupid meme?” _

“It’s not stupid, it’s lovable.” Richie replies, before adding, a little quieter. “Just like me.”

There’s a moment where all that Richie can hear is the slow pace of Eddie’s heavy breathing over the line. Word vomit. No other phrase for it. 

“Eds-”

_ “Alright,”  _ Eddie’s tone is sharp.  _ “Enough. Seriously, Richie, enough. You can’t keep playing these games with me. If you just want to be friends, that’s fine, I’m happy to be your friend, I think you’re ridiculous and you come out with the most inane responses and you make me laugh so hard my stomach aches for days afterwards, but I can’t keep pretending that everything is fine the way it is.” _

Richie swallows, thickly. “Eddie-”

Eddie laughs, high-pitched and a little crazed.  _ “I mean, you’re married, for fuck’s sake.”  _ He sighs. _ “You’re married, Richie. And I’ve met Bev, she’s so lovely, and I know that it’s not cheating or anything because we’re just friends, kind of, but it still feels wrong and I can’t - I’m sorry. But I can’t do it anymore. I like you, Richie, and it drives me crazy and if you don’t want to be my friend that’s fine, I get it, but I can’t … it feels like lying, and I spent the first fifteen years of my life being lied to. I refuse to do it to anybody else.” _

Richie is certain that cardiac arrest would hurt less than the ache in his chest. “Eddie. I - I’m sorry, I’m … so sorry.”

_ “What?” _

“I’m not married.” Richie barrels on, because he’s quite sure that Eddie won’t want to talk to him after he gets this out, but he deserves the truth and he hadn’t expected Eddie to come out with this before he got up the courage to speak up, but he can’t escape from it now. 

“I never have been. I love Bev, but like a sister. Bev’s husband, the architect, his name is Ben, he’s super sweet and they’re perfect together and I’m … I’m a comedian who dresses like the a dad going through a mid-life crisis living off a diet of beer and peanuts but I’m really,  _ really _ gay.”

_ “But … Ruby?” _ Eddie croaks.

Richie sighs, hand pressed against his chest. His heart is thundering like a jackhammer. Is this what having a stroke feels like? Is he having a stroke right now? “Ruby is my god-daughter. She has two godfathers - we’re also kind of her uncles, but that goes back to Bev being a sister and us all choosing each other as our family, which includes Stan, but we’re not together or anything - I mean I have kissed Stan, but we were like twelve and it was a game of truth or dare and I think he’d rather swallow bleach than kiss me again, he’s also married to this lovely woman, her name is Patty but I call her Pattycakes because-”

_ “Richie,” _ Eddie interrupts, softly.

“Right.” Richie shuts his eyes, taking in a deep breath. “Sorry. Not the point. Point is, actually, that I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t realise when we met that you thought I was married to Bev and then we went on that playdate and I had so much fun that I completely forgot and then Ruby told Stan and Stan was like ‘you have to tell Eddie dude what the fuck’ except not really in those words and I tried to, I swear Eddie I did, but every time I got too scared and sent you a meme or a video instead because I knew that you’d stop talking to me when you found out, and I didn’t want that but it’s not fair to you, so. I’m not married. And I’m sorry.”

While he waits for the hang-up tone, Richie scrubs the scruff on his cheeks and tries not to think about Eddie’s clean face and his clear eyes and the way he ducks his head when he doesn’t want anyone to see him smile and the way his whole body fires up with indignation when he rants and how he talks with his hands and how his stern eyebrows lift when he’s surprised and the flirt of his mouth when he armours a joke that he knows isn’t going to miss and how he looks at Alice like she’s the brightest thing in the world and how he’s such a good dad and how he makes Richie believe in things like hope and the future because he thinks he could find a home in Eddie’s arms. 

_ “I wish you’d told me this in person.” _ Eddie says, eventually. 

Richie falls off his chair, considers playing it cool, realises that nobody can see him at this low moment, and lays flat on the floor, his feet pressed against the wall. “So you can punch me?” He asks. “My face is my moneymaker.”

“I don’t want to punch you.” Eddie sighs. Richie’s heart leaps into his throat. It feels a lot like acid reflux. “I want to start over. Introduce myself. Maybe see if you’d be interested in getting coffee with me sometime.”

Richie presses the heel of his hand into his sternum. “Careful, Mr Kaspbrak.” He whispers. “We’ve just met. A lady such as myself ought to be wooed before such a forward proposition is made.”

Richie can almost feel the force of Eddie’s eye roll - because there’s no way Eddie didn’t roll his eyes at that. He grins, unable to help himself, and releases a heavy breath. 

“My apologies, Mr Tozier. How ungentlemanly of me.” Eddie replies, dry and flat. Richie has to bite his tongue from interrupting with his own chuckling laughter. “How does Friday afternoon suit you?”

“I have a show at ten, and a rehearsal at half-seven, so anytime before that works fine.” Richie presses his head back against the hardwood floor. “Unless you want to come to the show? It might be a little too much for a…”

“First date?”

Richie sighs in relief. “If that’s what we’re calling it.”

“I am.” Eddie admits. “Stick to my page, Trashmouth.”

“You know my stage name?” Richie asks. 

“It takes five seconds to google your name, and the first link that appears is an advertisement for your show on Friday. Which incidentally I am in the process of buying a ticket for.”

It’s a good thing Richie’s lying down, because that comment is enough to wind him. “I could have gotten you in, if you wanted to come. I’m kind of a big deal around there.”

“I can’t demand a refund for a poor performance if I don’t pay.” Eddie reasons. Richie bites his knuckles to keep from laughing too loudly and interrupting. 

“What if it’s not your kind of comedy?” Richie asks, even though his material mostly consists of being gay, being old, the latest attack Ruby has swung at him, his habit of just walking out of a room only to forget why and just never return, and liking dudes. 

Eddie hums. “For your sake, I’d hope that it is. It doesn’t make a lot of sense for me to date someone I don’t find funny, especially if that’s supposed to be their job.”

“Supposed to be?” Richie asks. If only phones still had cords on them, he could wind it around his finger and blush prettily at the sound of Eddie’s voice. 

“I’m reserving judgement.” Eddie’s voice softens. “I’m glad you told me. I’m still a little pissed that you let me believe you were married, but … I know you didn’t mean anything bad by it. And I do want to get to know you, because I like what I’ve seen so far.”

Richie groans beneath his breath. “You’re being so sincere, it’s really hard to not make a sexual innuendo right here.”

“I know.” Eddie says. “I like making you sexually frustrated.”

Richie groans louder, like he’d been punched in the gut, and rolled over onto his side. “Eddie, you’re killing me.”

Eddie laughs, shortly, but Richie hears it. “I’ll see you on Friday, Richie.”

* * *

Eddie can admit it. He can. 

Richie is funny. Like the laugh so hard he can’t breathe, tears streaking down his cheeks, stomach-ache kind of funny. 

In truth, he hadn’t expected to enjoy Richie’s comedy. He went, in the name of starting over, and because he does like Richie and supporting his interests and his career is important, whether they end up taking whatever it is between them into a relationship or not. 

The first few minutes are dry - Richie introduces himself as ‘Trashmouth Tozier’ which is such a cheesy gimmick that Eddie is fully prepared to sit there for the next two hours, completely bored out of his mind. 

Until the jokes actually start. 

Richie critiques his fashion sense, his hair, his big dumb glasses and his big dumb face (his words - Eddie quite likes his face, likes the structure of his jaw and the way his glasses make his eyes look huge, every emotion written in them magnified, just as much as the breadth of his shoulders or his big hands or his ridiculous legs). 

He gets a member of the front row, a young woman who introduces herself as Mary, to roast him as though she’d just swiped left on him in real life. Eddie laughs at her comments almost as hard as he does when Richie bows at her, as though bestowed upon by her critiques. 

The set is a perfect mix between sincere and ridiculous, and Eddie gets so swept up in the moment he almost misses when Richie turns serious.

“Guys,” He uncaps a nearby water bottle, resting an elbow on the back of a chair he hasn’t used once during the entire set. “You’ve been an amazing audience tonight. You’ve laughed at all the right times, including the quip about my style which I know you only did out of obligation because I look hot as fuck tonight”

Everyone laughs, gently, as Richie is expecting them to. Eddie smiles, but has to agree with Richie. Yeah, the boots are a little scuffed, and his hair stands to end like he’d stuck a fork in a socket, but the cherry blossom button-up goes well with his dark blue jeans and he’s oozing confidence that appears to come naturally. 

Of course, Eddie had seen all this before. Richie had admitted at their coffee date that he’d dressed nice for Eddie, but he probably wouldn't end up changing for his set later than night unless he had to. It’s fair to say the effort hadn’t gone to waste - Richie had ironed his clothes, because it seemed like the ‘kind of thing’ that Eddie would appreciate, though he’d had to borrow Bev’s because he wasn’t entirely sure what they even looked like. He’d brushed his hair and bought a new, lighter sensitive cologne that was woody and fresh and washed his shoes and foregone the old 80’s prints for something a little ‘fancier’. 

Eddie had spilt coffee down his work suit and turned up for their date in athletic leggings and an oversized gray sweater, looking for the most part as though he’d tried to go for a run, gave up, and spent the entire day couch surfing, as Richie had so cheerfully pointed out. 

Eddie had flipped him off, and Richie had reached out and kissed the back of his hand, grinning even as Eddie grumbled that he was an asshole. It probably didn’t help that Eddie couldn’t stop smiling the entire time, or that he blushed when Richie accidentally called him babe, or that the arm that Richie slipped around his waist without looking when they were walking off the caffeine stopped Eddie mid-rant, physically unable to continue yelling when he was melting inside. 

On stage, Richie clears his throat. He takes a sip from the water bottle - it’s only when he doesn’t make a deep-throating joke, even as a fake-gag, that Eddie realises it’s not meant to be funny.

“I’m gay.” Richie says. He caps the bottle and puts it down on the little table next to the chair. He laughs softly, mostly to himself. “You’re all sitting there like ‘yeah Richie, we know. You came out like six years ago. Your show is literally called Don’t Put Baby (back in the closet)’. Kinda obvious dude…’”. 

Most of the audience laughs, but Eddie is enrapt. Richie doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes for too long, just flits his gaze across the rows. 

“I’m going somewhere, I promise.” Richie runs his hands through his hair. “It’s always bad when a comedian says that, isn’t it? But I am, I swear. I just needed to remind you. In case you forgot.”

Richie glances up, and he catches sight of Eddie. Eddie smiles, a secret shared between them, and waves. Richie raises his hand and grins in return.

“There’s a very special guy in my life.” Richie announces to the room. “It’s new, and he’s way out of my league - like, you know when you see two people that just are in no way suited for each other, and it makes you wonder? Not like, a hot twenty-something and a super old guy, obviously she’s paying her student loans off, and good for her.”

Richie shakes his head. “I mean like … there’s a guy. Kinda tall, lanky, dad-bod without the kids, never brushes his hair, wears the same three outfits, his shoes have holes in them because he’s too lazy to break in new ones and they’re still good, really, if he just wears the right socks you can’t even tell.”

Richie adjusts his glasses. Eddie shifts in his seat, trying not to draw too much attention while shaking off his budding discomfort. “And then, there’s this other guy.” Richie shakes his head, again, but it’s fonder this time, his voice struck with awe. “He’s perfect. Really - deep, expressive eyes and this smile that sort of knocks you on your feet, and he’s so passionate when he talks that you get distracted and don’t realise you’ve just sat through a twenty minute lecture on lens cleaner, and you don’t care, either, because he’s so captivating. His hands wave about and chop in front of you and when he pokes you in the chest you want to get down to your knees and propose, because it’s impossible to believe there’s anything better out there.”

Richie’s hands are shaking, just enough to make the microphone tip a bit, so he slots it back into its stand and rocks back on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets. “He’s always poised for a fight, for an argument - or as he calls it, a ‘very heated discussion’ … sometimes I throw out an opinion I know is going to rile him up, just to see the fire in his eyes. Sometimes I yell back, just to hear him ask if I’m an idiot, because nothing has ever sounded so sweet.”

He laughs, looking down at his shoes, still rocking. “He doesn’t know any of this. I’ve never told him - I don’t know how. This-” he waves his hand out, broadly encompassing the audience. “I know how to do this. Comedy. I’d like to think I’m funny, otherwise it’s a little concerning that you’d waste money on me.”

Richie winks. “Thanks for that, by the way. I promise, it’s all going to a very good cause. The Richie-Tozier-Wants-A-Real-Life-Ms-PacMan Fund. Your contributions are greatly appreciated at this desperate time.”

The audience laughs, and something loosens in Eddie’s chest.

“I don’t know how to be genuine about my feelings.” Richie explains, softly. “Probably goes back to the whole ‘repression’ thing my therapist keeps harping on about. I never say ‘I love you’ first, not even to my best friends, who’ve definitely seen me at my worst, or my god-daughter, who taught me what it meant to truly love someone else.”

Richie waves his hand. “But you’ve heard about her before. One of my earliest tours was just about her. She’s old news.” He looks out, but not for Eddie. “But … I feel like this is a safe space. Can I be real with you guys?”

The audience replies with a slightly-discordant yes. Richie claps his hands excitedly. “It’s like those sleepovers I used to have with my friend, Bev, where we’d paint each others nails and talk about boys. It’s been so long since we’ve done that … like I’m talking a whole month, at least.”

Eddie’s world reduces to a tunnel, the light at the other end shadowed by Richie on stage. “I really like this guy.” Richie admits. “I sort of fucked it up a bit, but I’m working on making it up to him - don’t look at me like that, random guy in the front row, it’s not like I cheated on him, it was … no, you know what? I’m not going to tell you. You’d probably just judge me anyway. What, did a cockroach land in your coffee this morning, or something? Your face is just doing this weird thing where - oh. No, sorry. That’s just your face.”

There’s an uproarious laugh, likely from the guy who Richie had singled out. Richie tips a fake hat. “Anygay, as I was  _ trying _ to say - I really like him. Of course I do, did you not hear me before, he’s  _ perfect _ . I’m very new to the whole  _ telling people _ that I like them thing, because I usually just pine from afar, as is my god-given gay right.” 

Eddie laughs under his breath, his heart racing. He kind of wishes Richie had told him about this first, given that it’s clearly a departure from his usual routine, but he understands why Richie said it on stage. 

“I don’t really have a point other than that.” Richie shrugs. “I just really like him. I want to talk about him all the time.” He clutches his heart, bowing a little over the microphone. “He’s just so hot, too, like - it’s not fair. It causes me physical pain. I just want to crumble everytime he looks at me. He’s just-”

Richie groans, deep in his throat. “So hot. Everything he does is attractive. The first time we met I just about had to pick my jaw up off the ground, I swear, I had gravel rash for a week. I just-” Richie demonstrates to the crowd’s enjoyment. “So hot. Looking at him dehydrates me, I get-”

Richie laughs a little to himself. “I get - genuinely, alright, listen, I get heat stroke from standing next to him. He says my name and I’m just, like - everyone’s seen Wizard of Oz right? You know the Wicked Witch of the West? That’s me, I just melt into a puddle at his feet. We had a date recently, right, and I almost asked him to bring a mop. Just in case.”

Richie salutes. “I was never a boy scout, but I know the importance of always being prepared.” He winks, still laughing at himself, his free hand wrapped around his stomach. “If you can take back one lesson from tonight, let it be that. Always be prepared, and when a hot person looks at you, ask them if they have a mop nearby.”

The crowd cheers and Richie waves back. His face is shining under the stage lights. Eddie doesn’t think it’s a bad look. “You’ve been a fantastic audience, thank you! As your tickets say, I have been Trashmouth Tozier, and I hope to see your beautiful faces again soon. Good night!”

He slips behind the side curtain, and Eddie leans back in his seat, letting the people near him exit first. He’s in no hurry to leave, intent on cooling down his face before he catches up with Richie - his name is on the billboard outside, he doesn’t need the ego boost.

* * *

The security guard at the backstage entrance doesn’t believe that Eddie is who he claims he is, which Eddie would have a lot more respect for if he wasn’t on a mission, and if it weren’t so embarrassing to text Richie about it, given that his response is just a string of laugh-crying emojis. 

He has a towel wrung around his neck when he turns around the corner, grin splitting his face. Eddie glares at the bouncer with a smugness that melts away into pride when Richie is close enough to reach out and squeeze Richie’s hand. 

“You really came.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Of course I did, jackass.” 

Richie looks like a kid in a candy store. He clasps the bouncer’s shoulder. “Thanks, Zach, but I’ve got it from here. Say hi to Mary and the kids for me.”

Zach nods. “Will do. Have a nice night, Rich. Eddie, sorry about the confusion before. It’s good to meet you.” 

Eddie nods. “You too,” he says, seconds before Richie tugs on his hand, leading him down a winding hallway towards a door marked with a big, tacky silver cardboard star.

“I put that up myself,” Richie says, proudly. 

“Of course you did.” 

Richie kicks the door shut and turns on his heel, holding both of Eddie’s hands in his own. He swings them back and forth, idly. “So. Did you enjoy the show?”

Eddie gets a slight kick out of the nervousness on Richie’s face - not because he’s sadistic or anything, but because it’s kind of nice, to see that he really does have this effect on Richie, that Richie really does think so highly of him. “I did. You’re pretty funny.”

“Thanks.” Richie stares at their hands. “Did you like the, um…”

“Bit about me?” Eddie asks, to which Richie nods, sheepishly. “I don’t know if I’m meant to find that funny - it was weird, but I didn’t … I enjoyed hearing your thoughts.” 

Richie glances up. “It’s all true,” he admits. “Every bit.”

Eddie squeezes Richie’s hands. “You think I’m so hot I should carry around a mop everywhere I go?” 

Richie’s gaze slips down to Eddie’s lips and then back up again. “I think it’s good to always be prepared.”

“Then so should you.” Eddie says, sliding his hands up to loop around Richie’s neck. “Cause you’re hot enough to melt, too.”

“Not quite what I meant,” Richie says, letting his hands fall to Eddie’s hips. “That makes it sound like I’m ice-cream and my hotness causes me to melt, which just-”

“Richie.” Eddie cups Richie’s cheek. “Not the point.”

Richie nods, quickly. “Right, right, getting with the program, sorry.”

Eddie laughs, leaning forward. “Don’t be sorry,” he brushes his lips against the corner of Richie’s mouth. “Just kiss me.”

“Roger that,” Richie says in a voice that sounds like a caricature of a pilot, but he’s leaning in before Eddie can call it stupid, and then they’re kissing and Eddie decides it’s probably not worth the effort.

Richie kisses like he performs, deliberate and passionate with a teasing undercurrent that sends sparks down Eddie’s spine. His broad hands flex against Eddie’s hips, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of the jeans he’d changed into after their date, leading Eddie back against the nearest wall. Eddie pushes closer, his hand sliding up to cup against the back of Richie’s head, holding him in place. It’s like a game where the rules don’t matter, Eddie pushes and Richie pulls, both daring the other to give more, both undoubtedly winning. 

“I really like you, too.” Eddie says, as Richie peppers kisses down his neck. Richie’s hands still, one pressed against the small of Eddie’s back, the other previously dedicated towards tugging Eddie’s ironed shirt out of his pants. 

Richie looks up, eyes wide like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I don’t just kiss any old Joe Nobody.” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “I have better things to do than waste my time with someone I don’t like.”

Richie’s cheeks flush a dark red. “This isn’t a waste of time,” he says, though it comes out as a question.

“Fuck no,” Eddie squeezes Richie’s shoulders - good  _ lord _ he’s so wide. “I like you, Richie … hell, my kid likes you so much I got worried for a bit that she wanted to see you again more than I did. I think we have a good thing here and, if you’re happy to, I want to try and see where it goes.”

“I would,” Richie nods, so fast he looks like a broken bobble-head. A laugh settles in the bottom of Eddie’s throat but he doesn’t let it out. “Fuck, Eddie, I want to take you out on so many dates, I want to kiss you until your lips are red and I want to laugh with you so much my cheeks hurt and I want to dress up nice for you and let you teach me how to fold fucking napkins or toilet paper or some other shit I don’t get just because you like it.”

“Let’s start with breakfast.” Eddie whispers. “Tomorrow. You can pick me up at nine, if you’re not busy.”

Richie kisses Eddie, deep and long, before abruptly pulling back. “I’m not busy, but even if I was, I’d cancel everything to take you out to breakfast.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that much attention, so he kisses Richie instead, because he’s good at that and because he wants to, and he can. 

He’s not the best at doing things just because, but he thinks that Richie could help him. 

He thinks that Richie could be really, really good for him. 

**Author's Note:**

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